Sometimes she closed her eyes and imagined him as her infant child, greedy lips at her engorged breasts. She imagined a whole family of him: she with enough breast for each mouth, all of them drinking from her, their pleasure sending an explosion of desire through her. She thought of Elisapie and wondered how she had had the strength to give up her baby, even if it was true that it was her father’s.
Joanasi filled her with a pleasure beyond anything she’d known. Sometimes she lapsed into sleep against his shoulder, then awakened to find him staring at her, the room still awash in the glow of their lovemaking. “Do it to me again,” she would whisper.
He hated all the hours that school stole from them but she made him understand that her job was the very thing that had brought her to him in the first place. He nodded and told her she was right, he had no business taking that away from her. To compensate, he monopolized her on the weekends, drawing the shades, locking the door, lounging around in bed with her until supper, as though the outside world didn’t exist at all. In good weather he took her out on the land, away from everyone. She barely had time for lesson plans and corrections, and became good at improvising in the classroom. On-the-spot planning, she called it.
One Saturday they left the village before anyone was awake, darkness folding around them. Scarf pulled high over her face, she settled in behind him on the Skidoo, thighs gripping his hips. They sped toward a vein of light in the distance, wind loosening wild drifts of snow on the outskirts of town where a pair of bedded-down huskies slept, noses buried in each other’s fur.
She gave herself over to the purity of space, the rasp of the sled runners carving tracks in the snow, the boundless land and sky, nothing for hundreds of kilometres interrupting the horizon. This is what pure freedom feels like, she thought. This is what it means to let go of everything, completely, to think of nothing, to not think, to be all animal, bone, piss, shit, blood, to act only as your body requires, involuntarily.
The world was white. The moment was breath and she was in it, inhaling deeply. Exhaling the silence that begets silence, where everything begins again at the beginning, at the hushed epicenter of everything.
•
Joanasi found a promising site and ordered her to stay put as he built their temporary home for the night. He tested the hard-packed drift with his probe, then cut the first blocks with his snow knife, methodically building upwards in a continuous spiral. Watching him reminded her of what the Eskimos in Mrs. Fishwick’s black and white film did for survival. Those early, skin-clad people didn’t have land claims deals and governments building them ultra-insulated houses with kitchens and appliances and parking spaces for snowmobiles—the kind they were all slated to get sooner or later. Those first people made do, and being out on the land with Joanasi was like going back in time. It was a reminder even to him that he was self-sufficient, that his hands could carve and build and feed a village. He had explained all this to her the night of the school opening when they walked back to her place together—his symbiotic relationship with the land, how it made him feel like a whole man, like someone who honours and cares for and nurtures it. “When I am out there, I belong to it and it belongs to me,” he had said.
The brief hours of daylight were gone and the wind was picking up again. She watched with admiration as he cut and shaped and fit the blocks perfectly together. He plugged up the cracks with snow to seal out the cold, and waved her inside.
Yasmeen waited as Joanasi shook out the caribou skins and spread them on the ground. He sat her in his lap so that she could see herself reflected in his eyes. There was so much about him to admire: how he embraced life, his refusal to waste energy trying to ward off impermanence and death, things he had no control over. Probably he never even questioned it. Joanasi didn’t articulate why he did the things he did, he just did them. He ate and slept and held down a job. He hunted. He saw to it that she was safe, and his.
He held out a morsel of char to her, sideways on the blade of his knife, his tapered eyes watching her lips and tongue reach for it. “Aippaq,” he said, “I might be in love with you.” He lifted the teacup to her lips.
“I love how you do everything for me,” she said. “How you take care of me.”
“I like how you take care of me too,” he answered. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and moaned from a deep place. She told him he could have her any way he wanted. He smiled and said he once heard that, in the old days, if a hunter couldn’t find himself a woman for the night he sometimes took an animal. The custom wasn’t obscene to her, it was erotic.
Afterwards they laid down together in the vellum darkness, listening to the long-drawn-out breath of the wind. Listening to it blow snow finer than talcum across the plain.
•
She felt him grope her, nudging her out of the brume of sleep because he was ready for her, because he wanted to be inside her and he didn’t want to wait. His forearm reached around her waist and pinned her against his solid mass. He swung his leg over her hip, stabilizing her as he forced inside and pushed, grinding his joy into her, his blue-hot breath blowing on her neck. She wept. She remembered the voluminous sky and its river of stars. She remembered Joanasi building the igloo and caulking it against the cold, reassuring her that even if they were naked, it would be warm inside.
He thrust and she winced, feeling he had torn something in the deepest part of her. She bit down on her hand to give herself a different pain to think about. It hurt like nothing she could put words to. She was ashamed of herself. She wanted to love it, to not want to cry out, because this was what it meant to belong to the earth and its winter. To be a real woman, so full, so powerless, so utterly bound to the moon’s pull.
When he was on the cusp he eased up on her, squirting through her narrow passage, and in that instant she knew she would love him forever. Wavelets of her musky smell filled the igloo. What day was it? She had lost track. How many times had they done it already?
•
December 1983 (Dates from here on in are meaningless!!)
Dearest Morgan,
Remember a long time ago when we decided no half measures? Well, I met someone. And I’m in it for the duration. He’s from here and he’s fantastic.
Morgan, it’s going so fast and I’m afraid but that’s how I know it’s right. I like how he makes me feel, weak when I’m with him but also strong, probably the strongest I’ve ever been. I don’t even know how that’s possible, but that’s how it is. The first time we were really together, I knew.
Has it ever happened to you, to physically ache when you’ve been away from your lover too long? That’s the only way I can explain it. My world now is only fillable by one person. I can’t be without him. I need him. My body needs him. I want to be with him for the rest of my life. I want to have his children, as many as we can make together. And the lucky thing for me—he wants me. I mean really wants. Leaving here for two weeks at Xmas is going to kill me. Please don’t think I’m crazy. This is the sanest I’ve ever been. I see everything clearly and it’s all b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l. Money is nothing, love is everything. I understand now what it means to live as the Creator intended us to (and yes, I believe in the Great Creator, as Joanasi has explained him to me!!). You’re my best friend, the only one I can tell this to. Be happy for me.
Yours,
Yasmeen
P.S. Re-reading this, I feel that I might be letting you down. I can almost hear you going “what the fuck?” Maybe if I were in your shoes, so far away, I’d think the same thing. Let’s talk face to face when I get home. You’ll know just by being with me. You’ll see it in my eyes.
TWELVE
Yasmeen arrived at Sarah’s house and got to work on the duffel socks she had begun with Annie’s help. Though she liked Pasha’s idea of trying to make her own sealskin boots, it proved to be too difficult a task with its complicated overlay of different skins to make a decorative des
ign. Even the duffel socks demanded a level of skill and artistry she didn’t have, but Joanasi convinced her to give it a try. He explained how handmade clothes were more than just functional, they expressed something unique about their maker. He assured her, knowing her as he did, that she would make a beautiful pair. Yasmeen had grown very fond of the sewing circle and all the women who were part of it. She loved learning the techniques of clothing production that had been handed down from generation to generation for over a thousand years. It made her feel more connected to Joanasi.
Sarah popped her head out of the kitchen and announced there was tea and coffee for everyone. A collective aah wafted from the group.
Yasmeen passed one of her alirtiks to Annie for inspection. Annie lifted her eyebrows and showed Yasmeen’s workmanship around the circle. The women smiled.
“I think you’re getting the hang of it,” said Annie as people slowly made their way to the kitchen for coffee and bannock.
Yasmeen sat back on her heels and watched an elder bite the skins she was preparing to sew together. Her old-world method, a method none of the younger women used anymore, fascinated Yasmeen so much she passed on Sarah’s last call for coffee. The ladies drifted back into the room.
Annie was preparing to announce something to the group when Paulussie barged in through the front door. He dropped his coat on the floor and kept walking.
Sarah narrowed her eyes and muttered under her breath that he wasn’t welcome here right now. They exchanged dirty looks that suggested they were still in the throes of a previous argument.
Paulussie staggered toward her, oblivious to those watching. Sarah stepped out of his way. He locked his gaze on her as she sat back down in her armchair and proceeded to sew the lining for a pair of mitts.
Undeterred, he walked around the chair and stood behind her. He leaned forward as though he were about to tell her something intimate, heavy breaths ruffling the hairs on her head. Sarah remained upright in her seat, spectacularly uncompromising, jabbing the cloth with her needle, yanking it through with a vigorous tug. All through it she kept her composure. Only after Paulussie got bored and lumbered over to the bedroom to sleep it off did Yasmeen notice Sarah’s hands, how they couldn’t stop trembling.
•
The bubble-wrapped package finally arrived in the mail. It had taken so long Yasmeen had almost forgotten about it. She tore it open right there in the post office.
For months she’d done her best to give her students the tools they needed to navigate their future, but what she really wanted was something that would mirror their own story back to them, the centuries of accumulated wisdom that had allowed them to live in harmony with nature. Now she had it in her hands, the celebrated 1922 silent documentary, Nanook of the North: A Story Of Life and Love In the Actual Arctic.
Qalingo’s eyes widened as he moonwalked into class and noticed the TV and VCR player set up by the blackboard. “Yes!” he said, high-fiving Audlaluk.
The girls pushed their desks together and poured themselves each a handful of Skittles. Yasmeen switched off the lights and pressed Play. The film jumped around and crackled as the opening subtitles filled the screen.
“What the hell,” groaned Qalingo. “What’s this old stuff? Where’s the action?” He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his toe on the floor, impatiently.
Yasmeen gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Give it a chance.” She pointed at the hero of the movie, kayaking in traditional skins.
Qalingo looked away, unimpressed. Yasmeen left him and walked confidently to the back of the class. She glanced around the room and waited. After a while, Qalingo uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, saying wow and cool during the hunting scenes. “Mamaqtuk,” said Audlaluk as the actors gorged on their blubbery kill. The kids watched all seventy-eight minutes of hunting and sledging and igloo-building with record attention. Yasmeen had never been so ecstatic about a lesson.
“Don’t tell me,” said Elliot afterwards in the staffroom. He was leafing through a pile of test papers. “You wanted to remind them of their lasting connection to the world of their forebears. You wanted to show them that you value their customs, so they should too.”
Yasmeen felt the blood drain from her face.
Elliot took a sip from his Batman mug and licked the sheen off his lips. “You are aware that a lot of what Flaherty did in that film was unethical, are you not?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, beautiful as it is, a lot of that film was staged. Remember the harpoon? Cute, wasn’t it? Did you know they were already using rifles by then?”
She couldn’t think of what to say.
“Seriously. I can’t believe you didn’t know that.”
She wanted to tell him he was just a jaded old guy, but she remained positive. She told him she thought it was groundbreaking cinema. “Who gives a shit if the filmmaker played around a little? Sometimes an artist has to exaggerate to get at the truth of something.” She told him how much they loved the trading post sequence, when Nanook stared incredulously as crazy sound came pouring out of the gramophone. Qalingo clutched his side, he was laughing so hard. Audlaluk looked like he’d pee his pants. When Nanook put the record in his mouth and bit it, the entire class was in stitches. “Oh, my god, that scene—”
“Entirely scripted,” said Elliot. “And things aren’t going to go back to the way they were any time soon, you can bet on that. The people here just love their gadgets.”
“Scripted or not, I’m glad I showed it to them. Most of my kids have grandparents who understand it’s up to them to carry the traditions forward. But things are changing so fast, it’s hard for them to keep up … we have to help them the best way—”
“That’s not our mandate,” Elliot interrupted. “That’s what the Culture teachers are here for.”
Yasmeen gathered her papers in a huff. “We should all of us be putting their traditions on a pedestal! For fuck’s sake, Nanook was filmed in their own backyard, why shouldn’t we show it to them?” She reached for Elliot’s tests and dumped them in his lap. “You’re a dick,” she snapped. “For always spoiling everything.”
•
“Tell me again about the old days,” said Yasmeen as she soaked lazily in the bath. Joanasi’s hands rinsed the soap from her body. He kissed her hair. He kissed her breasts. He told her things his father had told him about the dogsledding days, how hunters had to keep moving in the hopes of finding caribou, stopping where the snow was soft enough to make camp and lighten the load, how they stored their supplies in the igloo and took off on foot after the herd, turning the sled on its side to keep the dogs from running away with it. He spoke of long winter evenings inside, the man making bracelets or trinkets out of walrus tusk while his wife sewed clothes for the family, the silence only broken by the howling of the dogs. “I love your people,” Yasmeen said. “It’s like I’m living the end of an age with you, only I never want it to end.” Joanasi rested his hand between her thighs, waiting for her to reach down and guide his fingers around and in.
•
With Christmas in the air, classes began thinning out, students either skipping off or arriving halfway through the day, tousled and sleepy. Elliot and Sam stood around the coffee machine talking about the weather conditions, analyzing the likelihood of plane delays or flight cancellations. The hope, of course, was for clear skies. Neither wanted to be socked in. Neither wanted to be stuck, as they put it, in Saqijuvik for the holidays. “We’re expecting a blizzard,” said Yasmeen one morning, trying to get a rise out of them.
Through her connection to the sewing circle, she was invited to the holiday bake sale, hosted by the village ladies’ association, to raise money for an after-school hockey program. Yasmeen was thrilled to have been the only white teacher officially invited. Annie helped her put the finishing touches on her new alirtiks so she could wear them
to the event, show people what she had made with her own hands. Joanasi was so proud he convinced his mother to give Yasmeen her Christmas gift early, a beautiful pair of sealskin boots, so she would genuinely feel like part of the community.
A small committee repurposed the gym in a few hours, festooning it with red and green paper chains and artificial pine boughs. They rushed around setting up tables and arranging cupcakes on aluminum pie plates with little price cards beside them.
Yasmeen arrived with a tray of carrot muffins, hoping to be assigned a task to help out, but the women kept rushing past her with their hands full. She set her tray down on one of the tables and went to stand by the door under the bright red Exit sign, hoping to spot someone she knew. She was grateful when Annie saw her and invited her to be part of their gift exchange. Yasmeen followed her to a large glass bowl already filled with names. She folded her slip of paper and dropped it in, mixing it around with the others.
An elder passing by caught her arm. “Yasmeengai,” she said, in the customary way. She was with another old woman who was wearing a floral-print dress over her bulky snow pants.
Yasmeen said, “Aah.”
The first woman squatted to admire her new sealskin boots. “Eeee,” she trilled. The other one knelt beside her and rubbed her knobbly hand across the boot. She waggled a finger at Yasmeen and burst into laughter.
“What are they saying?” Yasmeen asked Annie.
Annie chuckled and pointed at their feet. “They’re saying that you look like the Inuk in your sealskin boots and they look like the white people.”
It was true. They were wearing the same puffy Sorel boots with the sturdy rubber soles that she had brought with her from the army surplus store in Montreal. She pointed to herself and joined in their laughter. “Uvunga Inuk,” she said. I am Inuk.
“Aah,” they chimed in unison, before shuffling away.
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